


Locked Up

by orphan_account



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: MFMM Year of Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Another short fic for the August trope challenge. A would-be hero has Phryne in his sights. Phryne has other ideas. Jack picks up the pieces after she lands herself in a Bendigo jail cell. Set mid-Season 2.





	Locked Up

“Collins, has the Anderson autopsy report come over yet,” Jack Robinson stated, head down in a file folder as he exited his office in City South, with some urgency, in the direction of front desk. 

Unfortunately, Dot Williams inadvertently blocked his forward momentum, as she was presently occupying the space between the door to Jack’s office and the front desk, speaking in hushed tones to Hugh Collins. There was a push, a jostle, and a brief entangling of limbs that was altogether awkward and embarrassing for all concerned. Even the official portrait of the King that proudly stood watch over this most public area of the station seemed displeased. 

“Miss Williams, I apologize,” Jack stated as he recovered his footing. 

The hushed tones between Dot and Hugh continued though, as if the accidental collision was not their most important concern. 

“Collins, the autopsy report?” Jack continued. 

“Yes, sir. Right away.” Hugh hustled behind the counter, searching under log books and inside folders in a frenzied attempt to show compliance with his superior officer. (The King’s portrait approved.) 

Dot, however, seemed to stay in the previous moment, folding and re-folding a small piece of paper — no, a telegram — while attempting to hide an expression of genuine concern. 

“Did I injure you, Miss Williams?” Jack ventured. 

“No, not at all Inspector,” she answered sweetly. “I’m not that fragile.” Dot turned slightly away from Jack as she answered, placing the folded telegram in her handbag before turning back to him with a warm smile. 

“She’s not — Dottie’s not — fragile, that is,” Hugh called out (helpfully?) from behind the counter. 

Jack frowned. Subtle patterns of suspicious behavior were starting to align. 

“And Miss Fisher?” he continued. “Is she well? Did she make it back from Bendigo in one piece?” Jack aimed for a certain lightness in his tone, as if he were making conversation with a friend, not interrogating a suspect. 

“I believe she was detained,” Dot answered with a bit of a tremor. 

“Delayed, right Dottie? Delayed.” Hugh called out again. “I’ve nearly found that report, sir.” 

Jack persisted. “I thought her testimony was scheduled for Friday morning, Miss Williams. Was the trial delayed?” 

“I really can’t say, Inspector,” Dot replied, fidgeting with her handbag. 

“But you’ve heard from her?” 

“Yes.” 

“Of course,” he stated, a slight edge of jealously joining his tone as he leaped to a certain conclusion from Dot’s evasiveness. “As long as she’s well.” 

Jack pivoted to duck back into his office before Dot’s voice stopped him again. 

“Did you have plans with Miss Fisher, Inspector?” 

“No,” he answered. “Not as such.” 

No _firm_ plans. Perhaps plans to make plans, that he may have construed — well, _hoped_ — might turn into spending a pleasant Saturday night together over dinner and drinks in the parlor. Their recent outing to Luna Park, the footy match — it wasn’t that they had _declared_ an intention to spend more time together outside of work, but events did seem to be lining up in a pleasantly encouraging pattern. 

“Inspector,” Dot queried. “What if she wasn’t perfectly well?” 

“What do you mean, Miss Williams?” a slight note of fear now creeping into his voice. 

“I don’t mean to suggest that she’s injured… or in danger…” 

“Dottie,” Hugh interjected. 

“…and I’d never break her confidence…” 

“Nor would I expect you to,” Jack coaxed. 

“But it’s possible, of course,” Dot ventured, “that Friday evening’s arrest records for Bendigo might cross your desk….” 

“Inadvertently,” Jack supplied, putting the correct pieces together. 

“Accidentally,” Dot agreed. “Hugh might even slip them in between the pages of the Anderson autopsy report.” 

“Collins!” Jack bellowed. 

* * *

“What are the charges, Collins?” Jack asked. 

“Simple assault,” Hugh answered. “On one Mr. Thomas McInerny. A juror in the Ian Moore case where Miss Fisher was a witness for the prosecution. Bail was denied due it to being the weekend.” 

“So, she’s there until Monday?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did they send over a statement?” 

“Yes, sir. Miss Fisher’s and Mr. McInerny’s. But I can’t say that they make much sense. Mr. McInerny claims Miss Fisher was in danger and he was only trying to escort her safely through a dark alleyway to her hotel.” 

“And Miss Fisher?” 

“She says the need for heroics arose entirely from Mr. McInerny’s ‘fevered imagination’ — that parts in quotes, sir — and that she wouldn’t play the damsel — yes, I think that’s the word — damsel — to his white knight.” 

“I see.” 

“And then,” Hugh continued reading, “when McInerny grabbed for her in the alley, Miss Fisher slugged him with a wooden post.” 

“That she just happened to be carrying.” 

“That she picked up from a doorway when she heard threatening footsteps behind her.” 

Jack smiled. He couldn’t help himself. 

“No weapons charges?” he asked. 

“No, sir.” 

“Get the Bendigo station on the phone for me, would you Collins.” 

“Yes, sir. Right away.” 

* * *

“Jack, it was nothing,” Phryne said. 

“If that’s the case, Miss Fisher, what are you doing here in my jail cell.” 

“I could ask you the same question, Inspector.” 

“I thought you’d find City South’s accommodations more pleasant than Bendigo’s.” 

“I appreciate the change of scenery,” she replied in most sultry tone of voice, looking Jack up and down quite thoroughly, “but my view is rather obscured by the iron bars.” 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Fisher.” 

“You can let me out now, Jack.” 

“I really can’t,” he said. “Condition of the terms of your transfer from Bendigo. I have the paperwork right here. You must serve the remaining time before release, which is now…” Jack said with a flourish of his wristwatch, “just under two hours.” 

Phryne stood up from the cold bench and crossed to join him at the bars. “You’re enjoying this a little too much, Jack.” 

“I assure you, Phryne, I’m not.” His voice dropped low as he reached for her hand. 

As if on cue, Dot entered, carrying one of Mr. Butler’s famous picnic baskets, which she handed over to Jack. “How are you Miss?” she asked, a little sheepishly. 

“I’m fine Dot, thank you,” Phryne replied, the warmth in that thank you broad enough to cover absolution for any sins Dot might have felt she committed in the revelation of what the household would furthermore refer to as The Bendigo Incident. “I’ll be home later tonight.” 

“Thank you, Miss Williams,” Jack echoed. 

Dot smiled at them both, and took her leave. 

Jack removed the key to the cell from his pocket and held it out in front him, just an inch or two out of Phryne’s grasp. 

“Now,” he began, “if you’ll tell me what happened…” 

“You’ll let me out,” she interjected. 

“No.” But even as he said no, Jack placed the key into the lock and turned it to the right with a satisfying click. Agilely, he pushed the door open just far enough to let himself, and Mr. Butler’s picnic basket, through the opening, then shut the door behind him, bars clanging. 

He crossed the cell and set the basket down on the bench, taking his own seat beside it. 

Phryne tested the door — still locked — then turned back to Jack with an expression that mingled joy with pure astonishment. “Collins will let us out when the time is up,” he stated evenly. 

Phryne joined him at the bench. “You truly are a man of mystery, Inspector.” 

“I do what I can Miss Fisher,” he replied, opening the brown wicker flaps of the basket to see what delights Mr. Butler had prepared. “Biscuit?” 

“My hero,” she answered. 


End file.
